Agatha Christie – Poirot’s Early Cases

There, very likely, he was offered a drink. The drink would be suitably drugged, and when Lester emerged an hour later, he would have a very hazy impression of what had happened. 8o much was this the case, that as soon as Lester learned of Wu [,ing’s death, he loses his nerve, and denies that he ever reached [,imehouse.

‘By that, of course, he plays right into Pearson’s hands. But is Pearson content? No – my manner disquiets him, and he deter104

mines to complete the case against Lester. So he arranges an elaborate masquerade. Me, I am to be gulled completely. Did I not say just now that he was as a child acting the charades? Eh bien, I play my part. He goes home rejoicing. But in the morning, Inspector Miller arrives on his doorstep. The papers are found on him; the game is up. Bitterly he regrets permitting himself to play the farce with Hercule Poirot! There was only one real difficulty in the affair.’ ‘What was that?’ I demanded curiously.

‘Convincing Inspector Millerl What an animal, thatl Both obstinate and imbecile. And in the end he took all the credit?

‘Too bad,’ I cried.

‘Ah, well, I had my compensations. The other director of the Burma Mines Ltd awarded me fourteen thousand shares as a small recompense for my services. Not so bad, eh? But when investing money, keep, I beg of you, Hastings, strictly to the conservative. The things you. read in the paper, they may not be true. The directors of the Porcupine – they may be so many Mr Pearsons!’

CHAPTER IX THE PLYMOUTH EXPRESS

Alee Simpson, RN, stepped from the platform at Newton Abbot into a first-class compartment of the Plymouth Express. A porter followed him with a heavy suitcase. He was about to swing it up to the rack, but the young sailor stopped him.

‘No – leave it on the seat. I’ll put it up later. Here you are.’ ‘Thank you, sir.’ The porter, generously tipped, withdrew.

Doors banged; a stentorian voice shouted: ‘Plymouth only.

Change for Torquay. Plymouth next stop.’ Then a whistle blew, and the train drew slowly out of the station.

Lieutenant Simpson had the carriage to himself. The December air was chilly, and he pulled up the window. Then he sniffed vaguely, and frowned. What a smell there wasl Reminded him of that time in hospital, and the operation on his leg. Yes, chloroform; that was it!

He let the window down again, changing his seat to one with its back to the engine. He pulled a pipe out of his pocket and lit it.

For a little time he sat inactive, looking out into the night and smoking.

At last he roused himself, and opening the suitcase, took out some papers and magazines, then closed the suitcase again and endeavoured to shove it under the opposite seat – without success.

Some hidden obstacle resisted it. He shoved harder with rising impatience, but it still stuck out half-way into the carriage.

‘Why the devil won’t it go in?’ he muttered, and hauling it out completely, he stooped down and peered under the seat o o.

A moment later a cry rang out into the night, and the great train came to an unwilling halt in obedience to the imperative jerking of the communication cord.

‘Mon ami,’ said Poirot, ‘you have, I know, been deeply inter106 ested in this mystery of the Plymouth Express. Read this.’

I picked up the note he flicked across the table to me. It was brief and to the point.

Dear Sir,

I shall be obliged if you will call upon me at your earliest convenience.

Yours faithfully,

EBENEZER HALLIDAY

The connection was not clear to my mind, and I looked in-quiringly at Poirot.

For answer he took up the newspaper and read alohd: ‘”A sensational discovery was made last night. A young naval officer returning to Plymouth found under the seat of his compartment the body of a woman, stabbed through the heart. The officer at once pulled the communication cord, and the train was brought to a Standstill. The woman, who was about thirty years of age, and richly dressed, has not yet been identified.”